


What a Difference a Day Makes

by megnlv



Series: Modern Civilians AU [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Panic Attacks, Platonic Female/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8202910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megnlv/pseuds/megnlv
Summary: After a piloting accident has left Lena terrified to get back into the air, Amélie helps her get comfortable in the skies again.or;Lena travels to France to officially meet Amélie’s parents and faces a fear along the way.





	1. one flight down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part three of my Overwatch Civilian AU series. I definitely recommend reading Close To Home before this one, if you haven't already, for more established background of this particular AU. translations at the end notes!

**prologue**

When she was six years old, Lena Oxton broke her arm falling out of a tree.

Like most rambunctious kids, a fractured arm was only a mild setback - did nothing to thwart her adventurous mind. The thick yellow cast was a minor obstacle in her way, but not a hurdle she couldn’t jump over.

It drove her parents mad trying to keep her from climbing to the highest points of the trees in her backyard, because she wanted to feel like she was on top of the world, and when Lena had her mind set on something, it was damn near impossible to get her to change it.

So she climbed tree tops and stood at the edges of cliffs with her head thrown back and her arms spread wide, feeling the bite of the wind caress her skin; a magnet for danger and frequent hospital visits. No broken bones or scraped knees or concussions could hold her back.

There was _nothing_ that could hold her back.

Correction:

When she was twenty years old, Lena Oxton broke her mind in an Air Force piloting accident and has never flown again.

 _Almost_ nothing.

* * *

**april 28th, 2016**

Winston’s textbooks were scattered all over Lena’s coffee table.

He’d come to her small studio apartment after his lectures at grad school and was hunched over on her even smaller couch, pen in one hand and a peanut butter and banana sandwich - toasted, so the bread was slightly golden - in the other. A tiny jar of peanut butter was sticking out of the pocket of his backpack. Lena had told him to bring his own if he was hungry for it because he’s eaten all of hers already.

“So, I think I’m gonna do it, big guy,” Lena says from her bed, laying comfortably on her stomach. One of her cheeks is squished from resting on her fist, elbow digging into the mattress. “I mean, I’m friends with ‘em on Facebook, and me and Amé have been goin’ out for a couple months now. I think it’s time, ya know? But then there’s the whole issue with the plane. I’m around them everyday but, I dunno, just thinking about it gives me the goosepimples.”

Originally, Lena was supposed to meet Amélie’s parents over New Years - because they virtually never left the country - but hadn’t worked up the courage to go. So she spent the holiday cheer with Winston and his family and opted to pick Amélie up from the airport when she arrived back in Gibraltar. She’d waited with a bouquet of her favorite flowers and had jumped into Amélie’s arms, throwing her legs around her waist, the moment Lena saw her.

Winston makes a humming noise in his throat, reaching up to adjust his wire-framed glasses as his brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black, scan over his notes. “I think I’ve finished my thesis,” he mumbles, nodding to himself.

“Oi!” Lena calls, chucking one of her throw pillows at him. It just narrowly misses his head and bounces off of the TV screen. Maybe she should get Amélie to help her with her aim, since the Frenchwoman was always so bizarrely precise with everything. “Are you even listening to me, you big goof? I have a crisis here!”

“I’m listening to you. Of course I am,” Winston says, large shoulders heaving in an exasperated sigh. He glances over at her, and Lena feels a bit bad for trying to hit him, but the guilt is fleeting. “We’ve gone over this, Lena. Hundreds of times in the last hour.”

“Stop exaggerating,” Lena huffs. She rolls over on her back, staring up at the bland white ceiling. She bends her knees, planting socked feet on the mattress, and folds her hands over her belly. “I need advice. C’mon, isn’t this your area of expertise?”

“Advice on what?” Winston asks through a mouthful of peanut butter and banana. He’s returned to surveying his notes. “You said you wanted to go.”

“You know what,” Lena grumbles.

“Lena. You’re an aeronautical genius,” Winston explains, and this time, he sounds less focused on his school work and more focused on her - if the exasperation in his voice is any indication at all. Lena hates to take his attention away from what’s important, more important than some type of mock therapy session she’s dragged him in, but anxiety is causing her mind to reel, thought spinning in circles. She can’t help but worry, and a little advice from her best mate would help put some of her nerves at ease. “You know how everything works. You know the risks, you lived it. But you also know how slim the odds of actually crashing are.”

She hears him shift on the couch. It’s old, and Winston’s absurdly tall with a belly to boot, and it creaks with his movements. Lena doesn’t look away from the ceiling, but she’d bed that he was stretching out his back. “You can’t help the way you feel, Lena. It’s a natural, human reaction,” he says. “The fact you even want to try and go is a big step, whether or not you think so. But you shouldn’t push yourself if you aren’t truly ready for it.”

“That’s what Amélie says,” Lena tells him. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing at the skin in consideration. “I am ready, Winston. Doesn’t mean I’m not nervous as all hell though.”

Winston is quiet for a second. “You said she was coming over soon?”

“Yeah?” Lena rolls back onto her stomach to stare at him. He has a tiny smile on his face. “Later. I think she and her roomie Gabe are catching up on American Horror Story or somethin’. Why?”

“Maybe ask her if she can bring some drinks to loosen up that anxiety a bit,” Winston suggests. He looks sheepish as he shrugs his shoulders. "Sometimes all you need is a little alcohol.”

* * *

**may 10th, 2016**

Lena’s leg would not stop bouncing.

Seated on an uncomfortable leather chair beside her, Amélie sucks in a sharp breath, looking the very epitome of bored. All icy exterior and sharp ochre eyes, skimming over lengthy articles in a fashion magazine in favor of looking at the clothes. “Chérie,” she says breezily, “if you don’t control your spastic leg in the next five seconds, I swear I am going to break it.”

An empty threat of course, because airports put anybody in a bad mood if they were waiting long enough, but Lena places her hand over her knee anyway, digging her fingernails in the fabric of her joggers, as if that would stop it from bouncing in its place. It doesn’t work. Neither does it help the obvious tremble in her hands. “Sorry ‘bout that, love,” Lena apologizes, color flourishing over freckled cheeks.

Amélie’s eyes, beneath a pair of black framed glasses that Lena wished she wore more often, slide from the magazine in her lap and focus on Lena’s shaking hand and bouncing leg for an uncomfortably long time. Then, she’s reaching over, and her fingers are ice when they curl around her own and give a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Are you sure about doing this?”

Lena’s attempt to brush off her nerves with a giggle almost works, but it is not convincing enough. “Just got the jitters, is all!” She quips, and she knows the smile that she gives her girlfriend does not reach her eyes, but can’t help it. Amélie expresses her concern in very subtle ways, and it is nice to know that she cares so much. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, honest.”

“Right,” Amélie responds skeptically. The way she’s looking at Lena is like she can see right through her.

For a brief moment, her heart jumps suddenly with fear. _Can she?_ She wonders, and the leg bouncing stops, her knuckles turning white. It’s a fleeting, irrational thought, but the fear is very real.

“...Lena?”

That voice of liquid gold is like her tether to reality. She replaces the undoubtedly terrified look on her face with a sheepish grin that doesn’t last. Amélie seems to catch on quickly, thumb rubbing soothing circles over Lena’s knuckle. “We don’t have to go, chérie,” she says in a considerably softer tone. Her voice is still audible beneath the bustle of the busy airport around them. “Annecy is not going anywhere. I do not want you to push yourself too far, it’s not healthy.”

“But we already bought the tickets,” Lena argues, convincing herself more so than Amélie. It’s a weak argument, considering she got a discount on them because of her work at Gibraltar International Airport Control Tower, and neither of them were short on money. “And your parents -”

“Can meet you another time.”

“No,” Lena says, surprising herself with how firmly the word leaves her. “I’m just psychin’ myself out is all. I need to - I _can_ do this. It’s been too long.” She releases a heavy breath, nodding to herself, and the anxiety grows everstill in her chest but there is a new swell of confidence there, too. Amélie’s mouth forms a soft grin. It’s more encouraging to Lena than she may have intended. “‘Sides, I always wanted to see the place you grew up! Been to Paris once, when me and one of my mates got pissed as all hell and we ended up on the tube to France. Didn’t stay long, though. Mum wasn’t too happy about that.”

One of Amélie’s manicured brows twitches up. Her hand doesn’t leave Lena’s, and that is a comfort all in itself. “I went to university in Paris,” she explains. Lena finds herself hanging onto her words as a distraction, her accent rolling pleasantly off of her tongue, like music. “As a girl, I always said Paris was like a whole different world compared to Annecy. I think you will like it.”

“Well, as long as I’m with you, I’ll bet I will,” Lena says sweetly, the bridge of her nose crinkling with her smile. Amélie rolls her eyes and turns back to her magazine, but Lena sees the ghost of a smile on her face and counts it as a success.

The next hour of waiting before the plane begins to board serves more as a buffer between annoyance and restless anxiety, and Lena is glad that she at least remembered to dress comfortably; clad in a navy blue GBR crop top hoodie, and a pair of grey joggers. While Amélie reads beside her, Lena shifts in her seat and scans the waiting room, surveying its occupants to try and keep her mind from wading in more dangerous waters. More than a few of them are dressed to the nines in business suits. Lena didn’t know why they’d bother to wear such fancy attire for a 6 hour flight, but didn’t question it. Some people just liked to show off that they had money and were likely flying first class.

Despite her best efforts to distract herself, Lena can’t seem to shake the nerves completely. It isn’t the first time she’s flown since the accident, having to travel from London to Gibraltar, but she’d been sure to effectively sedate herself enough to avoid having a panic attack thousands of feet in the air, so half of the flight she’d been asleep. She didn’t talk to her father anymore, so her mother always made point to come visit her over the holidays instead of the other way around. But it’s been six years since she last flew, and Lena is tired of having this fear hang over her head, so when the opportunity presented itself to visit Amélie’s parents, she’d taken it.

She had to face this head on eventually. It was the only way she could truly move forward. And besides, she missed England. She wanted to be able to visit her family and old friends freely.

Her phone buzzes in her pants pocket, minutely startling her. She rummages to grab it and unlock the front screen, and can’t help the smile when she sees her best friend's name pop up in her messages:

 **Winston (+350)**  
Have a safe flight, Lena! It won't be as bad as you think. You'll be alright.

 **Lena (+020)**  
thanks big guy! I'll send ya pics when we land!

 **Winston (+350)**  
That's the spirit. I'll see you in a few weeks.  
Don't forget to bring me back something cool :)

 **Lena (+020)**  
you got it, luv! xo

“Petit chou,” Amélie says suddenly, and when Lena glances up, she is standing in front of her, 5’8” and looking fashionably comfortable in her sleeveless grey cowl neck sweater and leggings, her dark hair wrapped up in a messy bun - messy by Amélie's standards, anyway. Her carry-on bag hung off of her forearm. “They’re boarding, we have to go.”

“Oh, right,” Lena responds, tries to ignore the way her voice shakes, her cheeks flushing at the term of endearment. She follows Amélie’s lead and stands, pocketing her phone and grabbing the remainder of her belongings, her stomach knotted with nerves. Lena feels a little like he was on the verge of fainting or hyperventilating, but she steels her shoulders, trying to muster up some amount of courage that would get her through this without causing a scene and ruining the beginning of the trip for the both of them.

Just keep calm...and keep calm...and keep calm…

And hope this flying metal deathtrap doesn’t have a sudden engine failure over the middle of the ocean.

No problem.

They’re flying coach, which meant that they were some of the last people to board the plane, and by the time that they do, Lena is positively ready to turn around and head home. Amélie, bless her, consciously takes the window seat so Lena could have the aisle. Heights have never bothered her - she couldn’t have gotten her piloting license if they had - but she is suddenly extremely grateful for it.

Before, flying had felt as natural as breathing. There was something about being in the air, hands around the controls, an open sky laid out before her, that was exhilarating in the very best ways. It always felt _right,_ like the sky was where Lena was meant to be.

Then the test flight accident back at the London Base changed everything. Lena, at first, felt a certain jump of excitement after being out of commission for so long - a natural reflex, she supposes - but eventually, anxiety had creeped down her throat and made itself a home in the pit of her stomach. Lena knew, subconsciously, that she would never truly be able to fly comfortably again, but not being able to fly at all was crippling. It was like there was something missing. A huge chunk of her life, taken away from her in just one hour.

Possibility after possibility ran through her mind, paranoia rearing its ugly head, and each little bump as the plane takes off makes Lena’s heart leap. She’s expecting something to go direly wrong; that any tiny twitch would send them crashing. Somehow, she thinks that being a passenger may be worse. Lena has no control here. No gears to grab, no radars to monitor. She is in completely in the dark, absolutely helpless, and that vulnerability chokes her.

She swallows thickly and shakes her head, heart pounding vigorously. “Amélie, I-I can’t, I-”

“Lena.” Amélie’s voice is somehow both soft and firm at the same time. Cool fingertips brush at her jaw, gently turning Lena’s face towards hers. “Look at me, chérie,” she says. It takes a certain amount of coaxing until Lena finally complies and opens her eyes. Amélie is staring back at her intensely, and there is no hint of pity in her gaze; only determination, and understanding.

The worst of the take off is over, but Lena still feels like she can’t speak. So she says nothing.

“You need to remember to breathe,” Amélie says. Her usually cold palm is like fire against Lena’s cheek, and her other hand moves to grab the one that Lena currently has curled so tightly around the armrest that the blue leather creases beneath her fingers. “Tell me what you see.”

Lena blinks rapidly several times, confused. “I-what?” She croaks. She feels like her heart is choking her, lodged in her throat.

She thought she could manage to pull herself together and be okay. Winston had told her she would be _okay_.

But she isn’t, and it’s embarrassing, this panic. She wants it to stop. But, more than that, she wants off this bloody plane.

She wants _off_.

“Around you,” Amélie clarifies. Her voice is like a pull back into reality. “Just tell me anything that you see.”

Lena doesn’t want to look away from her girlfriends face - the familiar symmetrical degrees and angles that she’s long since memorized, acting as the only sort of comfort that Lena can safely latch onto. But Amélie seems persistent, and Lena trusts her judgement, so, with great effort, she does. “The little boy in front of us is watching Big Hero 6,” she begins, and her tongue feels heavy, stuck to the roof of her mouth in fear. She hates herself for the way her words tremble. “That’s Angie’s favorite Disney movie because she loves Baymax, yeah?”

Amélie’s fingers squeeze hers. Lena sees her nod in her peripheral vision. “Ouais, it is,” she confirms. “What else?”

“O-One of the flight attendants keeps starin’ at me,” Lena stutters, and although her gaze does not linger long on anything at all, the flight attendant’s eyes keep noticeably swiveling toward Lena as if she can see what is happening and if she needs to intervene to keep the peace. “The lady in the middle row with the blonde hair is already drunk."

Eventually, like boiling water, her heart rate gradually steadies to more normal levels as she lists minute things surrounding her. Discomfort writhed still in her stomach, but Lena feels like she can _breathe_ again, her mind a little less chaotic and delusioned with panic.

She leans back in her seat, fingers unclenching from the armrests, and inhales deep through her nose. Brown eyes turn to find Amélie’s, cheeks flourishing with color.

“Are you feeling a little better?” Amélie asks before Lena could so much as open her mouth to speak.

Lena is glad for the buffer. She clears her throat, dry and uncomfortable. She turns over one of her hands to grip Amélie’s, finding comfort in the physical contact. “Loads. Thanks, love,” she says. While it is not necessarily a lie, the panic is a dull itch in the back of her mind. She feels like she could jump out of her skin at any moment. “How’d you know to calm me down like that?”

“I am no stranger to panic attacks.” Slender shoulders raise in a noncommittal shrug. Her fingers fiddle idly with Lena’s, something Lena has noticed Amélie did often. “I had one at Talon, once. I managed to get someone else to tend the bar for me while I hid in the backroom to call Angela to pick me up. She taught me that trick, among others. Pride often got in the way of me getting help. But there is no shame in it, chérie. You do not have to try and hide it. That often just makes it that much worse.”

Her shoulders visibly deflate. “I know,” Lena sighs. “It’s not like I’m actively trying to hide it, it’s just...embarrassing.”

“Natural,” Amélie responds. “Not embarrassing.” She raises their joined hands, and the color in Lena’s cheeks darken when Amélie presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. Amélie intertwines their fingers and leans back into the space of her own seat, rolling her shoulders to make herself more comfortable. “Try to sleep. It is a long flight.”

Sleep, of course, does not come so easily. The steady thrum of the plane’s engines, which had some time ago been so satisfying to hear, kept Lena on edge with tension for the first three hours or so into the flight. She fidgets in her seat, restless, and scrolls absently on her phone until Amélie finally offers her an earbud and a neck pillow. While Lena sticks the headphone into her ear and adjusts to relax herself, Amélie, with the other headphone in her ear, reads a French translation of an English novel, looking bored.

Lena closes her eyes, cheek mushed against the side of the neck pillow, and very slowly, manages to finally fall asleep to old rock classics and the hum of aeroplane engines.

* * *

The relief that washes over Lena when her feet hit solid ground again is almost overwhelming enough to bring her to her knees. She could, if she really wanted to, kneel to kiss the airport floor out of sheer gratefulness.

According to Amélie, the few hours of the flight she had spent dead asleep, exhausted from the panic, had gone as smoothly as expected, with very little bumps along the way. It had been the turbulence while landing that had shook her awake. The plane hit rough air on the descend, and the turbulence had been so profound that even Amélie had looked tense, shoulders stiff and jaw set, her eyes closed.

Lena had very nearly gone into hysterics. It was a wonder she didn’t break Amélie’s fingers -

...which were slightly red and likely still aching as Amélie led her through the busy clamor of airport security to receive their luggage and wait for her parents to pick them up outside.

Seeing Mr. and Mrs. Guillard through various Facebook photos did not do them justice in person. Lena honestly didn’t know what she was expecting from them. Amélie was gorgeous - like, the otherworldly _, thank you God for her and for making me gay,_ kind of gorgeous, and she didn’t just think that because she was her girlfriend and she was biased, but because Lena’s jaw had literally dropped when they first met - so it only made sense that her mother and father were more or less the same.

Amélie’s mother, Alya, was dark to her father’s fair; a near spitting image of her daughter if not a bit more plump around the edges and darker skinned. Her hair was hidden beneath a headscarf made of bronze silk, and Lena remembers Amélie explaining her mother’s Syrian roots; that she’d grown up in a Muslim family that had come to Lyon long ago. She had almond shaped brown eyes, soft age lines around her mouth from years of laughter and smiles, her cheeks round and peppered with tiny birthmarks. Amélie has her nose; petite and upturned.

Lena absently hopes she looks that good when she’s her age.

Her father was very pale and strict looking in comparison, in his button up shirt and slacks, standing tall beside his wife. His cheeks were sharp and angled, light brown hair slicked back away from his face - and she would be the first to admit that he was a bit intimidating.

It was distinctly clear that Amélie attained a good mix of each of their best features.

Lena suddenly feels severely underdressed standing before them in her crop hoodie and sweatpants, her hair an undoubted spiky mess atop her head, more so than usual, nevermind the fact that she had nearly been sick with anxiety for a whole 6 hour plane ride. _What a great first impression,_ she thinks sourly, moving to fuss over her uncooperative hair to make it at least a bit more presentable.

“You look very cute,” Amélie reassures beside her, reaching over to meticulously brush a strand of brown fringe away from Lena’s eyes, head inclined. “I promise they are not as mean or judgmental as they may look.”

“Well, your mum doesn’t look bad at all, love,” Lena says, and those nerves are back causing a ruckus in her belly, only this time less intense than they had been on the place. “Your dad seems like he’s got a bit of a chip on his shoulder, though. I mean - no offense! I’m sure he’s a fine lad and all. Just an observation.”

“Viens.” Amélie rolls her eyes, grabbing the handle of her luggage and sauntering over to her parents, where they were waiting at a seemingly expensive black car. Lena lumbers quickly after her, swallowing thickly, one of the wheels of her suitcase obnoxiously creaking over the concrete of the sidewalk. Glancing at her now, the taller woman seems more at ease, mouth upturned into a pleasant smile, as if just being back home took a weight from her shoulders. Lena knew how that felt. Maybe after all of this was over, she’d brave a trip to visit her mum back home in London.

“Maman, Papa,” Amélie greets as they draw closer, Lena trailing awkwardly behind her. She lingers with each of their suitcases as Amélie is pulled into two tight embraces. After a moment of chatter between them, Amélie pulls away and turns over her shoulder, and suddenly Lena is under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes. “Ceci est ma petite amie, Lena.”

“Bonjour!” Lena quips, smiling warmly. She steps up and sticks out her hand expectantly; doesn’t pay any mind to her girlfriend’s soft chuckle behind her. “It’s so great to finally meet ya! Uh, what was it again...oh! Enchanté!”

She doesn’t need to look back at Amélie to know that she was absolutely butchering the French accent. She’d taken Spanish as a required language course back in school, under the impression that it would be more useful and common for her to use - and living in Gibraltar, Spanish was a language you should be prepared to know.

“Absurdité, pas de poignées de main!” Alya waves her hand away dismissively. Her voice is much higher than Lena had been previously speculating. She takes her by shoulders and abruptly draws her in, lightly kissing each cheek, and Lena makes a soft laugh of surprise. Alya holds her at arm's length, pleasantly friendly eyes scanning over her face. “How beautiful you are!” She says next. Her English accent is thick, a bit awkward and clumsy in her mouth.

“Oh, thank you - er, merci!” Lena’s tongue stumbles over her words. “Sorry, my French is awful, innit? Should’ve prepared more.”

While Alya appears to be bemused, happy that Lena was at least trying to speak their native tongue, her husband regards Lena down his pointed nose. Standing closer, he is absurdly tall. It is no wonder who Amélie gets it from.

“Enchanté,” he says smoothly. His voice is like butter, less strict and sharp than he appears, and Lena reaches for his extended hand. He dips down to press his cheek to hers, kissing the air beside it, before pulling away. “Amélie speaks of you very often,” he continues. The corner of his mouth twitches into a grin, a slight crack in the tension he was exerting. “More often than she ever did Gérard.”

“Papa...” Amélie warns, a faint tinge of pink on her cheeks. “Ne commencez pas.”

They waste no more time standing around the airport pick up with idle chatter and formalities after that. Mr. Guillard takes their suitcases into the trunk while the three women pile into the car, before beginning a twenty minute ride to Amélie’s childhood home. It’s a comfortable trek; Amélie’s parents both turn out to be wonderful people, and make Lena feel at ease with them immediately once conversation picks up, and it leaves her wondering why she had felt so nervous to meet them in the first place.

The Chateau is huge and beautiful, something you’d likely see published in a travel brochure to attract more tourists, settled just on the water of Lake Annecy with distant mountains and an open lake as a backdrop. Lena’s first coherent thought of it, aside from _bloody hell,_  is how lucky Amélie was to have grown up with the Alps in her backyard. The inside is just as beautiful; tastefully furnished and spacious, and Lena feels a bit like she's walking the halls of a castle. Alya clearly had an eye for interior decor.

Amélie’s old bedroom, painted a light gray, had long ago been transformed into a guest room, but bits and pieces of the past still linger: the tick marks on the doorway from when she started growing taller, a large mirror hooked to the wall opposite the bed where Amélie had practiced dancing.

With the promise of the four of them going out for lunch, Lena is left to her own accord to shower and get dressed. Amélie appears in the doorway just as Lena is finished drying her hair and tucking a denim button up shirt into her skinny jeans, one hand around the frame as she peeks her head inside. “Are you ready to go, chérie?”

Lena folds the sleeves at her elbows and turns to rummage through the piles of clothes in her luggage, more than likely wrinkling a few of them, pulling out a small, red book titled: **English to French Dictionary**. She holds it up, smile wide.

“Ready!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for some fun fluff and shameless sexy times next chapter *wink wink* (apologies for a slightly rushed ending. I was getting a little ahead of myself because I wanted to post this so badly ehehe).
> 
> TRANSLATIONS  
> Petit chou: little cabbage!  
> Ouais: yeah  
> Viens: come  
> Ceci est ma petite amie: this is my girlfriend  
> Absurdité, pas de poignées de main!: Nonsense, no handshakes!  
> Papa, Ne commencez pas: Dad, don’t start.
> 
> please leave a review with your thoughts/suggestions/questions!! they're worth the world to me and really helps motivate me to update. 
> 
> you can find me @ madame-lacroix on tumblr xx


	2. something's gotta give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amélie is so hot

They arrive at _Le Bistro du Rhône_ via car, a twenty minute ride from the Guillard Villa with little to no delay of traffic. Lena had practically had her eyes glued to the windows the entire ride, taking in every inch of Annecy that she could, marveling in its subtle beauty. There was so much left for her to see (Amélie was quite adamant in showing her _Vieille Ville_ as soon as possible), but Lena was positive that if she could, she’d marry Annecy in a heartbeat.

The restaurant itself, at first glance, seems a considerably fancy place to go to for lunch; it's waiters and waitresses dressed in black slacks and white blouses and ties around their necks. The weather is beautiful, sunny and warm, so the four take a table in the small courtyard outside and Lena, once given a menu she has to have Amélie translate for her, is pleasantly surprised to see that the food and drinks aren’t nearly as expensive as she originally expected them to be.

She ends up sitting directly across from Mr. Guillard, Amélie seated off to her right in a purple blouse and her black pencil skirt. Despite her father’s initial cordiality, Lena feels as if his sharp gaze is carefully scrutinizing and picking apart her every move.

Jean-Luc, their young plump-faced waiter with a nervous smile, speaks quickly. Too quickly for Lena to possibly grasp any familiar word in French that she may have known. Her cheeks and ears flush red in embarrassment when he turns to her after everyone else has already ordered, and she sends a panicked glance in Amélie’s direction. “Uh…” She gapes dumbly, struggling to find the words. She had pointed out what she wanted earlier, but the formalities of ordering had all but erased from her memory, and Amélie had insisted she leave her pocket dictionary at home under the assurance that they would spare her the trouble and translate for her.

Amélie’s lips lift into a small smirk, not degrading by any means, before she turns to address the waiter to order for her. Jean-Luc blushes like mad under her stare, Adam's apple bobbing; Lena can hardly blame the poor lad. “Elle aura ce que je vais avoir,” Amélie says, voice melodic, and Jean-Luc nods hastily before scampering to the kitchen.

Lena swears up and down she sees him subtly adjust his pants as he’s leaving, but keeps that to herself.

Poor lad indeed.

“Thanks, love,” Lena murmurs, still a bit pink in the face. Her hand finds Amélie’s beneath the table, resting over Amélie’s thigh, and she pressed into her palm. “Don’t know what I’d do without ya!”

“Carry a French dictionary in your pocket everywhere you go,” Amélie teases in that deadpan way she always did, and intertwined their fingers together. She reaches for her raspberry cooler with her free hand, swirling the liquid a bit in her glass before taking a small sip.

“So, Lena,” Mr. Guillard begins, sitting tall. “What is it you do for a living?”

 _Ah, so begins the interrogation,_ Lena thinks. Winston had told her to prepare for that. “Well, I work at the Control Tower at the Gibraltar International Airport!” Lena explains. “I direct the movement of aircraft and other traffic and also give clearance for takeoff and landing.”

Alya, as pleasant as ever, speaks in place of her husband. “You have an interest in planes?”

“That's right! There’s nothing quite like flying.” Lena beams, radiating with warmth. Despite her justifiable hesitance toward flying now, she could never truly dispel her passion for aero planes. For a majority of Lena’s childhood and, later, adulthood, planes have been her entire life. Before her father had cut her out of his life after finding out that she liked the girls in her class instead of the boys, he had taught her almost everything she knew about flying once she was old enough to grasp the concept of aerodynamics. “I did a few years as a test pilot in the Royal Air Force before moving to the Gibraltar. Was the youngest pilot to be certified in my class, I was!”

Mr. Guillard inclines his head, his sharp face briefly appearing intrigued. “The Royal Air Force. Impressionnant,” he decides on, and Lena doesn’t miss the approving look he sends in his daughter’s direction. “What has changed?”

The smile on Lena’s face marginally falters. This is how it usually went: she would open her mouth, unable to stop herself from giving away information about herself that she probably shouldn’t, and people would ask questions - draw attention to the big _Why?_ Lena would tell them, and the pity in their eyes was always the same. Suffocating and overwhelmingly bothersome.

With Amélie, telling her had been different. Amélie didn’t ask the unwanted questions, she just listened, and more than anything, she understood what it was like in her own way. People looked at you differently when you told them that something happened to you, or, like in Amélie’s case, if you were sick. It was their social status. The pilot with PTSD and the dancer with heart failure. It was all people ever saw.

_“I don’t want pity,” Lena had told her._

_“Good,” Amélie responded. “I have none to give.”_

She let Lena tell her on her own terms, on her own time, when she was ready. Lena will always be thankful for that.

Now, however, put on the spot, Lena shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Amélie’s fingers press tighter against hers, cold to the touch but reassuring in its actions. Lena hates how much speaking of it still bothered her. It’s been six years. She clears her throat. “I was chosen to be the test pilot for a new prototype called the Slipstream,” she explains, and it surprises her how substantial her voice sounds. “I could bore you for hours goin’ into the mechanics of it, but there was nothin’ like it that we had. Technology is always advancing, ya know?”

Mr. Guillard nods in agreement, but otherwise stays silent. His expression is unreadable. Amélie seems to have gotten a lot of her traits from him.

“You know the risks going in, as a test pilot,” Lena continues. She removes her hand from her girlfriends, settling instead for subconsciously folding her napkin into an indistinguishable figure. Nervous habit. “Sim’s prepare you for crashing, but it still has a way of messing with ya when it happens. Hit my head a bit too hard, RAF gave me an honorable discharge from service.”

Jean-Luc chooses then to arrive with their food, balancing it on two trays in his hands and pointedly glancing away from Amélie’s direction. Lena is glad for the buffer and reaches for her cocktail as he sets down their lunch, taking a generous swig.

When their fresh-faced waiter is gone, Mr. Guillard returns his attention to Lena. “Je suis désolée,” He says.

Lena gave a half-hearted shrug, twirling a glop of pasta around her fork. “Thanks,” she responds. “I do love my work now, though. Nothing compares to flying, but I feel like it’s where I belong.”

“Does it pay well?”

“ _Papa_ ,” Amélie cuts in suddenly, speaking for the first time in a long while. She rolls her eyes. “Enough with the 20 questions.”

Alya uses this as initiative to change the tides of the conversation as her husband smirks and turns to his food. She turns to Lena with a mischievous smile, crows feet around her dark eyes becoming more prominent on her beautiful face. “Lena, chère,” she starts kindly, “has our Amélie ever told you of the time she broke her ankle trying to dance in front of her bedroom mirror?”

“No, she hasn’t,” Lena giggles, turning in her girlfriends direction with a smile. There is, possibly, the promise of murder in Amélie’s eyes, fingers tight around her fork. “But I’d love to hear it!”

* * *

 

They spend their last night abroad in Paris.

Amélie acts as her own personal tour guide, showing Lena her favorite places to go to around the vast city while she lived there at university. Lena is a bit overwhelmed by everything, because there is just so _much_ of it - Amélie was right to have said that Paris was like a whole other world compared to Annecy - but she was always good at keeping up the pace.

She blows Winston’s phone up with more pictures from their trip, and is sure to stop at one of the corner stores to grab him a few souvenirs like she had promised him she would, including a black thermos cup that said _J’adore la Lune_ in white script on the front that she’s sure he would like.

When sunset comes, Amélie treats Lena to a romantic dinner at a quaint restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower and their hotel. The wine is ridiculously expensive, the food has her tastebuds throwing a party in her mouth, and the way Amélie smiles at her as they clink their glasses together has Lena’s chest filling with this familiar feeling, as if she was on top of the world, right where she was meant to be.

Clothes discard the moment they are back in their hotel room, lips sticky with the remnants of sweet red wine as they meld together, familiar and wet and desperate. Lena’s back hits the mattress as Amélie straddles her hips, in nothing but a pair of lacy underwear. She’s sure that by now, her whole chest and face are flushed bright red.

Amélie’s tongue drags slowly over her lips. She pulls the bottom one between her teeth, and Lena’s mind can’t catch a coherent thought if her life depended on it.

“Bloody hell, love,” Lena breathes. Her hand soothes over the  familiar intricacies of the large black and white tattoo over Amélie's thigh, all the way to her hip. “Do you have any idea what you do to me when you look at me like that?”

The wicked grin on Amélie's face suggests that, yes, she knows exactly what she is doing. “I don't know what you are talking about, ma chérie,” Amélie says. She leans forward, and waist long black hair, disheveled and pushed off to one side, falls like a curtain against Lena’s bare shoulder. Their lips touch, fleeting, before Amélie’s head dips into the crook of Lena’s neck - then lower, to her chest, and lower still.

It isn’t the first time they’ve had sex. No, that had been months ago, when they were still in the honeymoon stage of their relationship and practically undressing each other with every chance they had; which, once, Gabriel had accidentally walked in on. The first time they made love Lena had actually _cried_ \- not just because she couldn’t believe that she was so lucky to have someone like Amélie, but because it’d been so good that it had literally reduced her to tears.

Embarrassing, yes, but Amélie thought that it was cute. So that had to count for something, at least.

Nothing much about it has changed despite the fact that Lena could, for the most part, control herself enough to not cry every time Amélie did something particularly gratifying. But Amélie has this way of making Lena’s mind draw a complete blank; whether it be from something she was doing or saying or from the look in her eyes, clouded over with lust -

Kind of like she was doing right now, ochre eyes peering up at her from between Lena’s thighs.

Lena’s head throws back into the pillows and she presses her palm over her mouth, muffling the keening noise that drags from her throat. And for a few, blissful moments all there is, is _Amélie_.

 

 

When all is done, Lena is lying in Amélie’s lap, recounting stories of all the better times in the RAF with exuberant hand gestures and exaggeratedly mimicking the voices of her old superiors. Amélie is sitting up, leaning against the wooden frame of the bed, combing through Lena’s hair and listening intensely with the occasional chuckle. And even with the looming thought of the flight home tomorrow, just a few hours away, Lena is a peace.

“You are quite the storyteller, chérie,” Amélie says once Lena is finished. “You have made it sound like some grand adventure.”

“It was an adventure, love!” Lena quips, nose crinkling with the force of her smile. She closes her eyes, captivated by the way Amélie’s fingers work through her hair. She could probably fall asleep at any moment. “Just like this whole week was. I had a lovely time, you know. Thank you for this.”

Amélie’s smile is close-lipped, but genuine. “Thank you for coming with me.”

They fall into comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the city and each other’s breathing as Amélie’s fingers rake through the short spikes of Lena’s hair, fingernails soothingly dragging over her scalp. Lena hears her draw in a soft breath through parted lips before she speaks again, voice a murmur. “Je t’aime, Lena.”

Lena opens her eyes and meets Amélie’s gaze. The older woman was staring down at her fondly, gracing her with a small smile, and warmth spreads through her chest, tinting Lena’s freckled cheeks pink. Amélie, who was far less trusting, who had built a brick wall around her emotions, completely exposing herself by taking initiative to say _I love you_ first. Lena’s heart flutters, the corners of her mouth lifting into a warm smile. “I love you too, Amélie,” she says in kind; she means every word, and finally saying it aloud is like a weight lifted from her shoulders.

She’d try to tell her, weeks before, but all that had come out was: _I love….your tattoos._

And she does - she really, really does love them. She loves to  idly trace over them with her fingers when they cuddled, loves to admire the way they compliment her body, loves the small splashes of red color here and there on otherwise fully grayscale pieces of art. She just loves Amélie herself more.

She wishes she had the confidence to have said it first, but somehow this feels right the way it is. The two of them, snuggled on the bed in a dim lit room, in front of a large glass door overlooking the city of Paris and the Eiffel Tower as the sun began to set. Amélie's fingers in her hair, the other hand resting over Lena’s heart and feeling it’s strong rhythmic beat beneath her palm, so unlike the unsteadiness of her own.

Lena wouldn't change it for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short and sweet end to a short and sweet ficlet :)
> 
> I hope that you all enjoyed this!! I will definitely be doing more to this series because I have plenty of ideas, but I'm also working on a massive talon!tracer slow burn, so I may take a small break (that's questionable) from this to focus on that for a little while. Not to worry, I won't abandon this au, so stay tuned!
> 
> please leave your thoughts and any comments you may have below! they mean the world. and as always, you can find me @ madame-lacroix on tumblr. xx
> 
>  
> 
> headcanon for the road: Amelie has both of her canon tattoos - the one around her forearm and the black swan on her back (EDIT 8/8/17: and also the black widow on her outer thigh as seen in the summer games update!)


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